


Blue Stones and Sudden Destinies

by FalconFate



Series: Voltron: The Inheritance Cycle AU [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Accidental misgendering of dwarves, DRAGONS AND ELVES AND DWARVES OH MY, I gave Lance’s dad a name, Slow Burn, and there are new people, it gets awkward, just a little bit, very very slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-16 22:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconFate/pseuds/FalconFate
Summary: Lance had grown up on stories of the Dragon Riders of legend. Sure, the old tales were technically outlawed in the Broddring Kingdom under Zarkon’s 10,000-year-reign, but the tiny villages of the Southern Isles paid little attention to many such rules.Now, Lance is quite glad for those stories, when he meets a mysterious young stranger in posession of a strange blue stone.Actually, it would be more accurate to say that Lance found this stranger. Unconscious. On the beach.With a Resistance symbol tattooed on his wrist.





	1. Sails and Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious rider and mysterious circumstances.
> 
> Meanwhile, a young fisherman’s son sings a song about his favorite forbidden legend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, and welcome to the Eragon AU! I’m super excited about this! I have two separate AUs for this; this particular version will be loosely following the plot of the books, with elements of Voltron plot. I have another AU in the works following the Voltron Paladins as Riders under Eragon’s new regime, much closer to Inheritance Cycle canon.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The black stallion that thundered through the forest carried a figure cloaked and hooded to match the horse. Pale hands gripped thick black mane as the rider stood in his stirrups, urging the horse faster, further. He looked back, cursing colorfully when he saw the four soldiers on horseback, no closer than they had been a few minutes ago, but also no further behind.

The rider turned his gaze forward again—“SHIT!” he cried, pulling the horse up too late, too quick—the stallion sat back on his haunches, practically rearing, roaring in distress, stopping just close enough to the cliff’s edge to send loose rocks tumbling to the hissing waves below.

An arrow whizzed past the stallion’s ears, and he shied closer to the drop, startled. The rider swallowed back his frustration and despair, cradling his satchel close with one hand, drawing his sword with his other, ready to fight—until another arrow caught him in the chest, throwing him back—the stallion reared again, and his rider slipped from the saddle with a final yell, hurtling to the ocean below.

Suddenly riderless, and more than a little distressed about it, the stallion pranced from one foreleg to the other. His weaving set his stirrups swinging, and when they caught him in the sides the stallion charged down the hill, kicking and biting at the soldiers’ horses when they tried to catch him.

“It’s not here!” cried one of the soldiers, who managed to get close enough to snatch the stallion’s saddlebags.

“Damn bastard must have taken it with him when he fell,” another spat. “What’re we gonna tell the Commander?”

“Well, we know what he’ll tell _us_ ,” said a third. “Let’s go swimming, boys.”

But how could these soldiers have known that the ocean had already carried its prize away from the cliffs? That the riptide currents had, with deft fingers, dragged the rider by his cloak out into the darkening blue, to bear him and his precious charge into the wide, inky purple-black of approaching sea night? The moon was dark, and the stars hid behind thick clouds, and the soldiers searched in vain in the shallows.

 

* * *

 

The stories that Lance enjoyed most always started with, “Do any of you know the names of the greatest heroes of Alagaësia?”

Now, “greatest heroes of Alagaësia” could be referring to any of the four legendary Dragon and Rider pairs. Lance’s favorites were Blaytz, who hailed from Illium Island—just across the water—and his loyal, beautiful, incredibly talented dragon companion Riptide. Not only were they the most popular in the Southern Isles because Blaytz was from the Southern Isles, but both were also known to be charismatic, charming, kind, and accomplished. They’d saved Uden Island (Lance’s home) and Parlim Island from the deadly harassment of a nïdwhal, they’d built the first Dragonships, they’d saved a mainland village from a drought—basically, they were the best.

Of course, there were three other pairs: Gyrgen and Bormont, who’d moved mountains; Trigel and Olsara, whose respective singing and dancing conjured an entire forest into existence; and Alfor and Cinaleon, the mighty Elvenking and his dragon who brokered peace between all the races of Alagaësia.

There were also stories of the eight of them together, accomplishing great feats of magic and venturing out on historical expeditions, but those stories were all different depending on who told them—and everyone had a different idea of whether it was Cinaleon or Olsara who wanted to follow the fallen star, or if it was Gyrgen or Blaytz who decided to find life in the Hadarac, or whether Trigel or Riptide moved the Spine mountains to make room for Palancar Valley (Lance knew in his heart that it must have been Riptide—don’t you know the great feats of magic that dragons could accomplish?!). Which, admittedly, made sense.

These stories were over 10,000 years old.

He was thinking about this as he followed his father to the beach, smiling wistfully as his young nieces and nephews clamored for the village Grand Mother to tell them the stories of the great Riders of old, half-wishing he could join them. But today, his father had decided that Lance would begin to fully integrate into the family fishing business.

“Your brothers are all leaving the house, Lance,” his mother had told him, gutting and filleting fish in her skillful, rapid-fire manner. “Soon enough it’ll just be you, and me, and your father, and then you’ll be in your own house with your own family, fishing for all of them. It’s about time you learned to use your skills in such a way to prepare for that.”

 _What else can I learn?_ Lance thought to himself. _I’ve been doing this my whole life._ _I could bring in a full catch fast asleep if I wanted to!_ Nevertheless he stepped into the little fishing boat after his father, releasing the boat from the dock unprompted, and moving towards the sail, but his father stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, a smile giving his eye a cheerful twinkle. “Not today, son,” he said, pointing Lance to the tiller. “Guide her out. Show me what you’ve got.”

Giddiness bubbled in Lance’s chest. He beamed. “Yes sir!”

Hardly able to contain his excitement, Lance dropped to the tiller bench, running his hand reverently over the worn wood of the handle. Though the boat had been repaired countless times over the years, the tiller hadn’t been changed in generations—Lance’s brothers, and their father, grandfather, great-grandfather, they had all gripped this same piece of well-loved spruce. With intense focus, Lance steered the little boat out of the wide bay, following the current to an optimal spot for fish. His father called greetings to the few boats they passed, trading friendly jests, and making Lance’s ears flush with pride when his father said, “And, look, my youngest! A fine seaman already!”

As they cut through the water, Lance’s father asked him a few questions (“So, why would you turn this way rather than the other way?” and “Tell me about the way you use the tiller,” or even “Where are we going to put the fish when we catch them?”), to test Lance’s knowledge, and smiled proudly at all of Lance’s answers. Soon enough, Lance decided that they were approaching a good fishing spot (“Interesting choice,” said his father, trying and failing to be cryptic—Lance could tell by the twitch of his mustache that he’d chosen a good spot), so he asked his father to pull in the sail. The boat immediately slowed, and with little nudges of the tiller Lance could guide their remaining momentum, until he decided that they could weigh anchor.

Lance’s father began to whistle as he handed Lance a fishing rod, and they took their seats at each side of the boat. The tune was a familiar one, and Lance first hummed, and then sang along. It was one of his favorite songs, about Blaytz’s first adventure—swimming from Illium to Vroengard, and then flying back to defeat the warlord terrorizing his home.

_See Blaytz was a fine young sailor_

_With a taste for bluer waters_

_He swam the length of all the isles_

_In the Southern Archipelago_

_Then one spring day when the skies were blue_

_And clouds ne’er smirched their glory_

_Young Blaytz he swam for miles north_

_To the talon-island of Vroengard_

_Vroengard where dragons dance_

_And their riders feast on sweetgrass_

_Young Blaytz he swam to Vroengard_

_And rested from his journey_

_There he met an elven lass_

_And the son of a noble prince_

_But though Blaytz was a handsome man_

_He’d a more important task at hand_

_For see his home was under siege_

_From a warlord and his pet:_

_A fierce and brawny nïdwhal_

_With a taste for Blaytz’s friends_

_So mutters swept across the isle_

_That a danger was at hand_

_And though not many had much time_

_They agreed to give aid to Blaytz_

_First they brought him to a sacred room_

_And if I knew I’d tell you_

_That it was bright and airy and beautiful_

_But it’s a secret, sacred room_

_Four days passed without a word_

_Before young Blaytz emerged_

_And in his arms a speck of blue_

_A dragon of an ocean’s hue_

_Within a year did Blaytz return_

_To his island home_

_His sword shone bright in sapphire hues_

_And his spear was sharpened cruelly_

_First the bay he swept across_

_Astride young blue Riptide_

_And with a single throw of his spear_

_He fell the zealous nïdwhal_

_And then to the island town of Eoam_

_The biggest on the Isles_

_He struck down the vile warlord_

_And ran his posse out of town_

_And to this day we remember_

_That Blaytz was one of us_

_An islander and a seaman_

_And a true man who was just._

 

Lance made sure not to sing too loud—stories and songs about the old Riders were, technically, outlawed, and even though most of the Southern Islanders cared little for that particular rule, sound carried in strange ways over the water, to unwanted ears. His father gave him a smile and said, “You and your mother have the most beautiful voices.”

Lance was about to reply when something tugged on his line— _hard_. Whatever it was nearly pulled the rod out of his hands, before he got a new grip on it and started reeling in. “Blaytz’s eyebrows!” he exclaimed. “Dad, what do you think—”

“Ah!” his father stopped him. “You tell me. And don’t break your line.”

The pressure on the line wasn’t changing, and it wasn’t being pulled. Lance grunted as he continued reeling in. “There’s no fish that I haven’t caught out here,” he said through gritted teeth, “so I guess it’s something else!” Suddenly, whatever it was became a lot lighter—so suddenly that Lance feared he’d broken his line.

But as he finally reeled it all in, there was his hook, caught firmly on a waterlogged leather satchel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I have fun writing that entire ballad??
> 
> Yes, yes I did.
> 
> I think I’ll be working on this over the summer, so stay tuned for more!


	2. Incoming Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance and his father marvel at their first catch.
> 
> And a newcomer has arrived...

Lance and his father shared a long look. The satchel sat innocently between them, looking all the world like an entirely normal bag.

“Should we look in it?” Lance wondered aloud.

His father chewed on his lower lip, which made his mustache look like it was twitching. “Let’s wait,” he finally said slowly. He cleared his throat and turned back to his rod. “We need to catch some actual fish, anyway.”

Lance nodded and mimicked his father, even though curiosity was itching at his fingers.

Not even a minute later they both turned back to the satchel. Lance tugged it towards him, unfastening the flap and yanking open the drawstring, revealing a shimmering gemstone, about the length of Lance’s arm. Both Lance and his father gaped at it.

“There’s _nothing else in here_ ,” Lance breathed. “Just… just…! _This_! A huge-ass—”

“ _Lance_!”

“—blue rock!”

His father quickly covered the stone with the satchel’s flap. “Hush!” Bizarrely, he cast a nervous glance to the sky. Lance followed his gaze, and saw nothing but the gray cloudbank that was rolling in on the rising wind. He dragged his attention back to his father as he whispered, “This is no ordinary stone. Hide it under the bench; we’ll discuss it further back home, but we need to bring back a catch.”

Lance nodded and gently shoved the bag beneath the tiller bench. Unable to resist the temptation, let his fingers slip beneath the flap and brush the smooth, polished surface of the stone, and felt a little thrill at the silkiness of it—like it wasn’t really stone, but something organic _pretending_ to be stone.

“Lance! Fish!”

“Right!” Lance jerked his hand back like it had been burned, scrambling to put his line back in the water as the first curtain of rain fell over them. Instead of trying to force the mysterious stone from his mind, Lance forcibly turned his complete attention to the task at hand.

* * *

 

Despite all of Lance’s best efforts, the strange stone was never far from his mind. He would have asked his father all of the questions filling his head to bursting ( _Is is magic? Is it some sort of artifact? Is it holding something? Are we going to sell it? Or put up ‘found lost item’ posters?_ ), if it weren’t for the heavy rain and the rising wind.

When they’d filled their catch-tub three-quarters full, his father shouted over the storm, “Let’s head back to shore! No use getting ourselves washed out to the open ocean!”

So while his father unfurled the sail, Lance sat at the tiller bench—gently kicking the satchel with his heel, to remind himself that it was there—and turned the keel so that, when the wind swelled in the canvas sail, the little boat turned on a sharp circle. With the wind behind them, Lance didn’t need to tack back into the harbor. His father held onto the sheet with two hands, and he’d wrapped part of it around one of the knobs on the rail for further purchase.

The boat carved through the waves, which had begun to grow. Lance let out a whoop of joy when, every now and then, the boat would race over a crest with enough momentum to overtake the oncoming trough, slicing into the next wave with a huge spray of saltwater onto the bow. His father laughed, but let the sheet slip a little through his fingers, lessening their speed.

As they approached the docks, Lance’s father called, “You tell me when to drop the sail, son!”

Lance nodded, and then turned his entire focus onto judging their speed, the distance to the docks, the wind and the waves. Not yet, not yet, not—was that kelp on the beach? The shape was large, and dark, and shaped vaguely like…

“There’s a body on the beach!” he exclaimed. “Who—?” If he could make out limbs, he suddenly realized, then the boat was too close to the beach, and all thoughts of bodies on the beach fled his mind. “—crap! Now! Bring in the sail _now_!”

His father hauled on the shroud, pulling the sail to the mast while the wind fought to keep it open; Lance grabbed the anchor and, when they were still several yards from the dock itself, dropped it into the water. They had enough momentum to drag the anchor through the sandy harbor floor, but it slowed them down enough that Lance could steer them to the dock without fear of shooting past it.

His father jumped out and began tying the boat to the dock; Lance pulled up the anchor and put it away, and tossed lines to his father as needed. As soon as the boat was secured, Lance and his father, eager to get out of the rain, quickly readied the boat to be left for the night. Before they hauled the catch-tub onto the dock, Lance grabbed the satchel from beneath the bench, stuffing it into his own bag, which no longer held his lunch.

Lance and his father each grabbed a handle of the catch-tub; they’d begun to stagger up the incline of the beach, their feet sinking into wet sand, when Lance caught sight, again, of the body on the beach. “Dad!”

His father followed Lance’s gaze, then cursed. “Wait here!” he yelled over the storm, setting down the catch-tub and jogging over to the body. Lance watched anxiously, shaking water out of his eyes every few seconds, as his father rolled the body over.

“Lance!” His brother, Luis, was jogging down the beach. “Let’s bring this in!” he suggested loudly, grabbing the unoccupied handle. He and Lance carried it up to the house, and their father followed with his own cargo. Overall, Lance decided, this had been a more-eventful-than-normal day, and he was looking forward to his mother’s cooking, and warm dry clothes, and investigating the stone in his satchel. 

* * *

 Unbeknownst to Lance and his family—and, frankly, the rest of Uden Island—the wind carried a huge winged shape over the low-hanging storm clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the shadow dipped into the frothy gray, glittering faintly in the dim starlight before it disappeared.

The shadow looped around the island once, twice, watching through the rain and fog the stubborn late-fishing fishermen, marked by their bright lanterns, returning to their homes. Finally, when there was very little chance of being seen, the shape swooped down to the center of the island, pulling up before it crashed into the small mountain.

Then it dove into the rain-blurred trees, and disappeared into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY AM I EXCITED I don’t remember the last time I posted two chapters //consecutively//. Hope y’all are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing! I’m just starting to get back in the groove of writing all the words all at once.


	3. Colliding Circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As one sleeps, another awakes.

Lance and Luis carried the catch-tub full of fish into the cold room—a thick-walled, heavily-insulated shed where they could pack fish in ice before salting or using them—and made quick work of emptying the tub, layer by layer, into the ice chest. Before they raced through the rain back to the house, Luis good-naturedly punched Lance in the shoulder. “Didja forget to eat your lunch today, little brother? Your bag’s bloated.”

 _Shitshitshit play it cool Dad didn’t say anything about brothers knowing or not_ — “Oh, yeah,” Lance stammered, _thinkthinkthink_ , “Dad asked me to bring one of the ropes back to the house so that he could repair it. One of the thick mooring lines, y’know?”

Luis raised an eyebrow, halfway out the door. “Yeah, the new ones the Grand Mother had made, I know. Thought those were gonna last forever.”

Lance shrugged. “Let’s get back to the house.”

They ran to the house, clambering up the stairs and shoving their way through the door. Lance suddenly realized how _wet_ he was: soaked to the core, and he felt that if he pricked himself on a needle he’d probably burst like an overfilled canteen, and his blood would be a weak, translucent pink. And he was _cold_ ; he darted across the kitchen to stand by the fire, his teeth chattering. A pot of soup hung over the fire, and the fragrant, savory steam frizzed Lance’s curly hair.

The house was more of a large bungalow, and Lance absolutely loved it. The whole thing was raised on sturdy stilts, and they could drag the boat underneath if they needed to make dry repairs. The main room of the house was a large kitchen-parlor hybrid, big enough to comfortably fit the whole family (including in-laws) and still invite guests. There was a washroom and one of the bedrooms branching off from the main room, but the other three bedrooms were upstairs. The lower bedroom used to be shared by Lance’s sisters, but they were both married and had moved out, so Luis slept there now.

Tonight, however, they had a guest. Through the doorway to Luis’s bedroom, Lance’s mother fussed over the stranger from the beach—a pale boy, with a shock of dark hair and bright pink sunburns on his face and collarbones. She’d halfway stripped the poor sod already, and…

“Blaytz’s barnacles, is that an _arrow wound?!_ ” Lance cried. The shaft must have been broken, but there was no mistaking the stub of wood bedded in the unconscious boy’s left shoulder.

“Yes, now shush!” his mother replied. “He’s lost a lot of blood, he’s probably dehydrated, he’s definitely sunburnt and half-drowned, but this fool is stubborn—Lance, get yourself some dry clothes and a bowl of food; Luis, in the corner cupboard of the washroom, pull out the medicine bag—the boiled leather one, with the spiral design, you know the one.”

The brothers leapt to do as they’d been told. Lance took the stairs two at a time and ducked into his room, shoving his bag beneath his bed. He quickly stripped away his wet clothes and hung them from the line on the back wall (fishermen were quite used to needing a place to hang wet clothes), then pulled on a loose pair of thick woolen pants and a homemade cable-knit tunic that, having been _slightly_ too tight on his father, drowned Lance.

Then, barefoot, he tramped downstairs and ladled himself a bowl of soup, dangerously full. Lance had to concentrate on it as he moved slowly to the table, careful not to spill. His father was already seated at the table, heartily enjoying his own meal.

“S’it safe?” Lance’s father asked gruffly.

Lance nodded, unable to speak as he nearly inhaled his soup. The spice made his scalp tingle and his nose a little runny, and it blended perfectly into the flavor of the fish and the vegetables. It was his mother’s best recipe, based off of a coastal Surdan classic.

His father waited for him to take a breath before he continued, “We need to keep that stone hidden. Don’t tell your brothers and sisters about it, or your mother, or your friends. And certainly not this stranger, when he’s awake.”

“What if he’s the one who had it?” Lance whispered.

“Can’t take that risk,” his father insisted. “If he asks about it, deny it. That stone… it’s better kept secret. Trust me.”

Lance chewed on his lip. “What is it?” he asked. “You make it seem like some sort of… I don’t know. You act like it’s a weapon.”

His father leveled him with a stony gaze. “That’s because it is.”

* * *

 

By the time the family would normally be winding down for the night, Marco and Lance’s father had both gone to bed, Luis had moved his stuff and spare cot to Lance’s room and was snoring away, and Lance’s mother was preparing her things to watch over the young stranger in Luis’s bedroom. Before Lance could escape to his room and crash from his exhausting day, his mother called to him.

“Lance, could you watch him for a moment? I need to go upstairs and bring down fresh towels. He has a fever, just keep his forehead cool—dip the rag in the bowl every now and again, so that it stays cold,” she directed.

As she bustled up the stairs, Lance sat on the stool by the bed and lifted the cloth. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to nurse someone; his nieces and nephews, when they got sick, became the immediate concern of the whole family, and _everybody_ had to pitch in to keep them comfortable. Lance was often chosen to watch their fevers—he was a comforting presence to them, often making them forget they were sick.

However, he was usually in charge of conscious patients. A comatose teenager with an arrow wound? That was a first for Lance.

Everyone on the island was tanned from a lifetime of coastal sun and ocean winds. Lance’s family in particular were of a talented seafaring stock; family lore said that they were descended from the first elves who traveled east, and made their homes on the Isles—they were all tall and broad-shouldered, with long, nimble fingers.

This stranger was nothing like Lance had ever seen. For one, beneath his sunburns, he was paler than seafoam. His dark hair was long and held no curl; he was skinny and compact, and _bony_ —his skin seemed to be stretched tight over his shoulders and collarbones. He was lean and wiry, and Lance wondered if he spent his whole life on the balls of his feet. As he drew the cool cloth across the boy’s brow, Lance wondered what color his eyes were. Something mysterious, he thought. Maybe blue.

“There we are! Thank you Lance, you can leave him to me,” his mother announced, appearing in the doorway. Lance jumped with a muffled shriek, causing his mother to chuckle.

Sheepish, Lance withdrew, wringing out the cloth and laying it by the bowl. “Skinny’s all yours,” he said.

His mother sighed. “He _is_ skinny, isn’t he? I’ll have to make sure he eats when he wakes up.” Then she frowned. “If he doesn’t wake up soon, we’ll have to force-feed him. And that’s never pleasant for anyone.”

Lance laughed quietly, then kissed his mother goodnight and hurried back to his room. He took off his tunic and climbed into bed, and listened to Luis snoring on the other side of the room—the reason he’d moved downstairs when the girls had moved out was that his snoring kept everyone on the same floor wide, wide awake. Lance sighed and settled in for a long night.

His thoughts turned to the mysteries of the day. _Snore._ The peculiar, alluring stranger downstairs. _Snore._ The stone beneath his bed—the bed that he was lying in right now, as a matter of fact.

 _Snore_.

Quietly, Lance pulled the satchel from beneath his mattress. Double-checking that Luis was still asleep (and with his back to Lance, no less), Lance reverently opened the bag and pulled out the stone.

The only light he had was that of a dim, shaded candle on his nightstand, but nonetheless it danced across the gem’s surface, catching in whorls of color, glittering in facets of crystalline structure deep within. Gazing at the colors, Lance felt like he was falling into the stone, into the blues and turquoises and teals that swirled like the milk his father poured into his tea. It seemed to hum, gently, silently.

This stone, Lance knew, was special. His father said that it was a weapon, but Lance had the feeling that it was so much more than that, that it _could be_ so much more.

It _wanted_ to be more.

At this point in his thought process, Lance decided that he ought to go to bed. So he gave the stone a respectful shove back into its satchel, hid it back beneath his bed, and forced it out of his mind as he settled into his blankets and snuffed out the candle.

* * *

Far to the east, beyond mountains and deserts and unsleeping cities, deep in the twilight forests, someone awoke to the thrum of magic. Enormous eyes, violet flecked with gold, opened for the first time in over a century.

A great head, supported by a long, thick neck, cleared the ancient treetops. Vines and low-hanging branches snapped as the creature they’d grown around for so long shifted, a great breath sighing through her chest.

She turned her gaze to the stars, where Aiedail hung in the sky, gleaming and distant.

 _Something has happened_ , she thought, humming deep and low in her chest. _Something has changed._  
_Someone is coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, Eragon-related things that I write always draw themselves out....  
> ...huh.
> 
> Hope you’re all enjoying this, slow burn as it is! :D


	4. Whispers in the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is awkward.
> 
> Even more newcomers!

A pair of strange fellows arrived on Beirland Island, seeming to appear in the middle of Eoam overnight. No ferryman or ship’s captain admitted to bringing them across the water. Their rapsing, hissing voices whispered from beneath low-drawn hoods and long, pointed masks, asking after unusual circumstances, strange people. They skulked down the streets, in the shadows of the alleys. 

One man, piss-blind drunk between a tavern and a brothel, woke as they passed him, and scared into such a fright that he took off running, faster than anyone thought his fleshy body could ever achieve. He collapsed two blocks away, and his wheeze became a death rattle as his heart gave out.

As the day grew long, whispers followed the hooded figures. No one knew their quest. No one wanted to find out. But decay seemed to trail in their wake: plants wilted in window sill flower boxes and personal gardens; three separate street dogs were found dead; Mrs. Evarin’s baby grew quiet and feverish.

That evening, sailors muttered of curses. Many had returned that day with rattling coughs and black phlegm; some spoke of a shadow beneath the waves, noxious vapors on the water. 

By nightfall, the strangers had scoured Eoam. They rasped and chattered to each other in their own strange language, dragging withered hands across a map of the Isles—from Eoam, to the other Beirland villages marked on the map with X’s; and then sweeping over the other islands: Illium, Nia, Parlim. 

And Uden. 

* * *

 

When Lance stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, he was somewhat prepared for a stranger.

What he was _not_ prepared for was two of them.

Lance stood blinking at them for a minute. No, wait—one of them wasn’t actually a stranger. One of them was the mysterious washed-up boy, who was a stranger. 

The other was Pidge. 

“Pidge!” Lance exclaimed happily, dashing over and giving his friend a hug.

“Hi Lance,” Pidge greeted, awkwardly returning the hug with his short arms. Pidge was half-dwarf, which Lance had only learned the last time the tinkerer had visited Uden Island. It did explain his stunted stature, six toes on each foot, and full sideburns at fourteen— _no_ , Lance was _not_ jealous, _pfft_.

“Um,” said a voice that Lance had never heard before but instantly caught his attention, “hi.”

Lance immediately straightened, suddenly realizing that he’d forgone his shirt that morning, and was standing only in his trousers in front of the strange boy from the beach. “Hi! How’s your shoulder? I’m Lance. Wow, your eyes are _purple_ ,” he blurted—possibly all in the span of half a second, he wasn’t sure. 

Purple-Eyes looked just a tiny bit terrified at the onslaught of words. Pidge rolled his eyes and socked Lance in the shoulder. “Drink your tea, Lance, you’re a damn menace in the morning.” Lance chuckled and moved to do as he was asked, ruffling Pidge’s hair as he passed, earning himself an offended squawk. Pidge huffed, and Lance heard him tell the stranger, “Unlike literally everyone else on the planet, Lance’s tired brain results in too much energy. He usually cools down after he’s eaten.” 

“Oh,” replied the stranger. He sure seemed to like his single syllables. Poor syllables, maybe they wanted some love.

Okay, yeah, Lance needed to wake himself up. He bustled around the room, alternating between whistling and humming as he crushed tea leaves with a mortar and pestle at the countertop, put the kettle onto the fire to boil, and then stirred his powdered tea and a dash of sugar into his mug. He took a sip, savoring the heady flavor.

It was then that he noticed it was still dark outside. Which meant he’d be making his own breakfast. _Oh well_. He took another gulp of his tea and set about making himself some fish on toast. Noticing that his guests seemed not to haven eaten either, he made three plates. 

Pidge immediately started digging in, but the stranger looked so surprised when Lance set a plate in front of him, Lance had to wonder at the kind of people he lived with. Or didn’t live with. And then had to forcibly keep his mouth shut so that he didn’t ask insensitive questions of someone he didn’t even know the _name_ of—oh, he should probably get around to learning that, right? 

“So, do you have a name?” Lance asked.

“Keith,” the stranger answered, taking a tentative bite of his toast.

Lance blinked, and before he could stop himself asked, “Do you only speak in single syllables?”

Keith stared at him for a moment. “Yes,” he said slowly.

“Wait, really?” Lance dropped his toast to his plate in his haste to apologize. “I didn’t mean to offend—like, if it’s a condition or something—” The corner of Keith’s mouth twitched. Lance narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see how it is. You’re having me on.”

That earned him a soft chuckle from Keith, almost drowned out by Pidge’s cackling. “He might as well only speak in single syllables,” Pidge wheezed. “I’ve gotten three full sentences out of him all morning.”

Lance frowned. “Pidge, how long have you been here? When did you get on the island? And how?”

Pidge shrugged noncommittally. “Ferry, yesterday.”

“The ferry doesn’t cross till the day after tomorrow,” Lance pointed out.

“Well, he crossed for me,” Pidge said irritably. “Look, I’m here to talk to your dad, it’s urgent.”

Lance blinked owlishly. “Oh, you mean—like, the secret stuff you guys never talk to me about?”

Keith glanced at Pidge. “He doesn’t know?” he asked quietly. Pidge shook his head.

Lance threw his hands in the air. “How come the new guy knows?!”

The new guy lifted his arm and pulled down his sleeve, showing Lance his wrist, where a symbol was tattooed in black ink. A sword, a rose, a dragon, entwined around each other. The flag of the resistance force, of the Varden Folmenni, the Garrison Guard—a group many thought was long gone.

Pidge hefted his leg onto another chair and pulled up the pant leg to show a matching tattoo on the side of his calf. Lance stared at it, unblinking, for a minute.

Finally, Lance whispered, “My dad’s in on this too?”

Pidge nodded. “He’s our connection to the Southern Isles. Someone is sent out here pretty regularly to check in with him—I’ve been doing it the past couple years because the Commander thinks I need something to focus on.” His voice filled with resentment as he finished his sentence.

Lance gestured at Keith. “And what does he do? Run around looking menacing?” Pidge snickered at that.

“Not menacing enough,” Keith muttered into his food.

Pidge punched him playfully in the arm—something he liked to do to people, apparently. “Oh, cheer up,” he said. “It’s just because you stole the only reason Sendak has his castle, right out from under his nose. If you’d stolen, say, a _bucket_ , you’d have been home free. And yelled at, a little bit, but home free.”

Keith wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think it’s the only reason Sendak has a castle. He happens to be one of Zarkon’s favorites, anyway.”

“Not for much longer,” Pidge intoned in a sing-song voice. 

Lance gaped at Keith. “Sendak. You stole something from _Sendak?_ What the hell is so important you’d literally risk your hide for it?” And when Lance said literally, he really meant _literally_. Commander Sendak was said to be more beast than man, tearing his enemies limb from limb on the battlefield, and implementing inventive torturing methods at home. 

There was an awkward moment of silence. Lance slumped in his chair when he realized, “It’s top-secret, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Pidge said, drawing out the word. “It’s more for your safety, honestly.”

Keith frowned. “Then we shouldn’t have even told him we’re part of the Garrison.”

Pidge flapped a dismissive hand at him. “He’d have found out sooner or later. I think.”

“Hmph.”

Lance scowled at Keith. Keith scowled right back. Pidge struck them both on the shoulders. “Boys!” he snapped. 

“You’re one to talk, fourteen-and-a-half, four-foot-two,” Lance told him. That earned him a less friendly punch to the shoulder. “Ow!”

“Fourteen and _three quarters_. You’re hardly a year older than I am.” 

Rubbing his shoulder and pouting, Lance opened his mouth to fire back a retort, but he was interrupted by his father stepping into the kitchen and greeting Pidge with a warm, “Little Holt! Wasn’t expecting you here so early, the ferry doesn’t cross until the day after tomorrow.” 

“See, that’s what I said!” Lance exclaimed. “Apparently, Pidge paid the ferryman off or something.”

“Or something,” his father agreed. He sat down, stuck a hand out to Keith. “Feeling better, stranger?”

Keith shook the offered hand hesitantly. “Much better.”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Keith.”

“Ah, Keith—I’ve heard about you. Very sorry to hear about Shiro.”

A muscle jumped in Keith’s jaw. “Thanks,” he said flatly. Back to his monosyllabic tendencies, Lance noted.

“Guillermo,” said Pidge, “can we talk before you head out this morning?”

“Of course, of course,” said Lance’s father. “Why don’t I bring you down to the dock, so that you can approve our new mooring system as well?” 

And then the two of them were out the door and descending the stairs, off into the morning blue fog hanging over the harbor, leaving Lance and Keith alone, awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes.

“They do that a lot?” Keith asked.

“Every time Pidge comes over,” Lance replied. “At least, now I know why.” He drummed his fingers on the table, finished off his tea with a gulp. Itching for something to do, he cleared all the plates off the table and began washing them. 

The soft scrape of wood on rug told Lance that Keith had gotten up. “Um… thanks, Lance.”

Lance turned, confused. “For…?” 

Keith blinked. “Um. Breakfast. And, um. Seeing me on the beach. Your mom told me it was you.” 

“Oh! Right. Of course… Uh, you’re welcome.”

Nodding just a few times too many, Keith started backing towards Luis’s bedroom. “So, uh. I’ll see you later. I guess.”

“Yeah.”

The door shut. Which left Lance alone, in the kitchen, hands poised mid-air above the tub full of dirty dishes and soapy water, casting awkward glances at Luis’s bedroom door and wondering at the boy behind it.

An interesting start to an intriguing day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, bit of an update. I’ve been writing this on the road, and since my group’s been stopped for sightseeing this week, I haven’t gotten much time to write. However, recently we’ve had some crises, so I’ll either have no time to write, or I’ll have a lot of time to write, depending on if we stay or get back on the road. I’ll try to write as much as I can. All of you so far have been lovely and nothing but kind, and I will be taking as much time as I can for this story! It’s certainly far from over, let me tell you. 
> 
> You’ve all been enthusiastic and supportive, and I thank you so much for that. You guys are the ones who make this story special. Hope to get back to you guys soon!


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